


The Clouds Above Opened Up and Let It Out

by thegrumblingirl



Series: One More Miracle [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock returns, three years goddammit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's dead, and John is losing himself. Nothing happens to him, until something does, something that might break him-or bring him back to life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clouds Above Opened Up and Let It Out

_The Atlantic was born today  
_ _And I'll tell you how  
_ _The clouds above opened up  
_ _And let it out_

The moment John had seen Sherlock die, the rain had started. Rain, never-ending rain, pouring down on him, blurring his vision even in bright sunlight.

_I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere  
_ _When the water filled every hole  
_ _And thousands upon thousands made an ocean  
_ _Making islands where no island should go_

After the funeral, he couldn't go back to the flat, couldn't face what was left of his and Sherlock's life together. He managed to spend a few nights on Mike Stamford's sofa before renting a small flat away from central London, similar to the one he'd had before… he never finished that thought. Not anymore. He'd asked Mrs Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade to pack up his things and just leave them on his new doorstep, hardly any of it unpacked so far.

He had never set foot into 221B Baker Street again.

_The rhythm of my footsteps crossing flood lands to your door  
_ _Have been silenced forever more  
_ _The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row  
_ _It seems farther than ever before_

Ella, his therapist, sometimes tried to get him to write his blog again, but John had only one, never-changing answer: 'Nothing happens to me.' He lived on his army pension and some substitute shifts he worked at the surgery—Sarah hadn't been overjoyed to see him, but had promised she'd help him as best she could. The media attention had long since died down, but with his continued steadfast belief in Sherlock's honesty and loyalty, John had manoeuvred himself into the worst possible position. He wasn't just the poor sod who had been used and deceived by the greatest criminal fraud in history—he still defended him. Obsessed, people said. Dependent, under a madman's spell, they whispered, even now. Lestrade officially wasn't allowed to let him within 50 yards of Scotland Yard, though that didn't stop the DI, whose career had taken a considerable dent, from stopping by regularly. Mrs Hudson did the same, at least twice every week, bringing food and magazines. They had tried to get John to talk over the first few months, but had, at some point, resigned in the face of his silence. Mycroft had tried in the beginning as well, but John had told him in no uncertain terms to butt out and stay away from him before the government lost its head—literally. The elder Holmes brother had wisely taken him seriously, and hadn't attempted to contact him ever since, though John was pretty sure he still kept at least a CCTV camera's eye on him.

The only one who never fumbled for words was Molly, because she knew that death rarely offered conversation. She sometimes let John help out in the morgue, which suited him just fine—since Sherlock was gone, he felt closer to the dead than he did to the living, anyway. He was back where he had been, except now nothing could ever be the same again. Just once, John had asked her what Sherlock had looked like to her when she'd last seen him. She'd looked at him with sad, compassionate eyes for a moment, considering her response.

"As if he'd lost everything he ever wanted," she'd answered quietly, and they'd never spoken of it again.

After her shift that night, Molly had gone home and crawled into bed, trying not to cry herself to sleep, wondering if John would ever know that the last time she'd seen Sherlock was in an alley behind the hospital, on his way to his own funeral. And that there hadn't just been grief for what he'd lost, but an unearthly determination to get it back.

John, in turn, had gone home to an empty fridge and crap telly. Sherlock Holmes, his best and only friend, had died three years ago. The only things that marked any passage of time in John Watson's life were the frequent visits to Sherlock's grave. He kept it free of fallen leaves in autumn, brushed off ice and snow in winter, and kept the weeds at bay in the summer months. And he did something he'd stopped doing almost entirely: he talked. Never for very long, but for him, five minutes at a time were an achievement.

Sometimes, he told Sherlock what he'd been up to, which naturally wasn't much, no thanks to him. Sometimes, he told him how angry he was with him, for leaving him behind, for not telling him the truth, for daring to try and lie to him. There were still some things left that he wouldn't—couldn't—ever be able to say, but every time he asked him to be alive, somewhere. No matter how many times he spoke the sentence 'my best friend's dead' in his therapist's office, there was always this ridiculous bit of hope that kept tearing to the surface, kicking and screaming, whenever he tried to put it in a box and bury it, along with all the things he hadn't said; a box to which only one man held the key. In his isolation, John sometimes found himself considering his gun in the desk drawer, underneath his laptop. Before he met Sherlock, at the very beginning, he'd sometimes asked himself why he'd kept it, against regulations. He had rarely been honest enough with himself to admit that he was living with a stopwatch. When would he press the button and find that too much time had passed without him finding a reason to stay? He'd felt his time was limited, he'd known he wouldn't make it much longer. And then he met Sherlock, and found a reason to live.

Now, John was alone again, caught in his grief, and incapable of communicating it. He caught himself eyeing the gun sometimes, when he took out the laptop to look something up for Mrs Hudson or to check his emails which were, invariably, from Lestrade. He felt as if he'd pressed that button on the stopwatch and glanced at it a thousand times already, overstaying his welcome. At the same time, he couldn't. Couldn't end his life.

Every time, a voice at the back of his mind seemed to whisper, 'Not yet;' and John knew exactly what the voice was waiting for. He never talked to Ella about it, or to anyone else, for that matter, but he knew that he wasn't ready because he couldn't stop holding out for that miracle. It was ludicrous, he knew, but living with Sherlock had been no less ridiculous at the best of times, and there had never been anything that had felt more right to him. Pulling a Romeo and Juliet now was just what the universe would have ordered, the ultimate mockery of the closest relationship he'd ever have.

Now, three years later, on the dot, John stood at his best friend's grave, inevitably choking on his own breath.

"I know—" he started, but his voice wavered and he had to draw a quick, compensating breath to keep going, trying not to hyperventilate, "I know that you had a reason for doing this, and it wasn't that you were a fraud, you were… you never lied to me, until that day. You had no reason to kill yourself—God knows your ego wouldn't have let you." He swallowed thickly, lowering his head, his fists clenching as he readjusted his upright posture. Looking back up, there were tears in his eyes.

"I know you didn't do this for yourself. You tried to drive me away by pushing me to believe their stupid lies, to protect me, to make this easier for me. You didn't want to do this, you had to and you called me. You  _cried_  when I refused to believe you. Moriarty used me against you once, he was sure to do it again. You did it for me, didn't you? You fool, you  _bloody_ … fool.

"Now, there's just one thing I ask of you, Sherlock. I want you to have had a plan, a way out. You died for me, Sherlock, now come back, for me. I need you."

His voice finally broke completely, and he had to wipe at his eyes. He straightened his shoulders and, with one last look at the headstone that marked the worst day of his life, turned around to leave, not feeling the warm summer air through his thick jacket, the same that he'd worn very long ago.

Unbeknownst to John, there was a tall figure hidden behind the tree just next to the consulting detective's grave. Coat collar turned up, eyes closed against the tears threatening to spill over as they had done one fateful day long ago, Sherlock Holmes thumped his head against the tree trunk as John's words echoed in his mind. When he was sure that he wouldn't be seen, he ducked around the tree and followed John.

When John arrived in the tiny flat, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd been having many times over the past months, that he was being watched, or followed, or both, by someone else than Mycroft, but no matter how often he looked over his shoulder, there was no-one there. He shook his head at himself, and went to the bathroom. When he came back out five minutes later, he heard water boiling in the kettle and someone puttering about in the kitchenette. He heaved a sigh—he had hoped he'd get away with it this year, but there seemed to be no way of escaping Mrs Hudson's unwavering care. Rounding the corner, he called, "Really, Mrs Hudson you shouldn't—"

What John saw, who John saw, instead of Mrs Hudson, let his blood run cold. He stopped dead in his tracks, his mouth agape, his eyes staring as if hypnotized.

"Hello, John."

That deep baritone voice greeted him, and John could feel the world fade away. Unable to say anything, he took a step forward, lightly shaking his head.

"It's me, John. I'm not dead. I came back. Just as you asked."

"Sherl—… Sherlock," John stammered in a broken whisper. Sherlock searched his face and body for any clues, for a response, anything to tell him what he was thinking, but all he saw was grief. Disbelief. Fear. Sherlock's heart clenched, and he pressed on.

"I was trying to protect you. You were right, I had other reasons. Moriarty threatened to have you killed unless I jumped and closed the circle. And, yes, I had a plan. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you, but you had to believe… they were still watching you. I couldn't risk losing you. Perhaps one day, you can forgive me. Please, forgive me."

John stepped closer to Sherlock, his expression still half-frozen.

"You were gone. You were… you were dead. You left me, for three years, on my own." He was breathing heavily through his nose now, his mouth a thin line, as he closed the gap between him and Sherlock, poking the taller man's chest with his index finger. "I believed in you."

"I know."

Without further preamble, John raised his fist and punched Sherlock in the face. The detective stumbled back a little, holding his cheek, hiding a smile behind his hand.

"Where were you, Sherlock? Where the  _hell_  have you been?" John's voice was rising now, and he didn't bother toning it down. "Why didn't you warn me, on the phone? Why were you so intent on making me miserable, believing that I'd lost you? And what were you doing? Going on a holiday?"

"I couldn't have warned you, they were watching you, have been ever since then. One wrong word in the wrong place, they would have killed you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. I couldn't risk it, you had to believe me. I wanted to text you, I have drafted messages on my phone to last me three years, but I couldn't."

"Don't you think knowing you're alive but not knowing where on earth you are would've driven me mad enough?"

"You remember Mrs Monkford? The smallest thing could have exposed you," Sherlock explained quietly, but emphatically.

"How dare you stay so bloody calm when I'm just itching to punch you again?" John hissed, Sherlock's attitude driving him up the wall even more than it used to.

"Am I? Calm?" Sherlock took his hands from his coat pockets and held them up—they were shaking. "See? Body's betraying me again."

John scoffed. "Spock…"

"Captain," Sherlock replied softly. John's eyes widened, and without thinking, he grabbed Sherlock's hand to hold it in his own, feeling the great, uncaring monster trembling in his grasp.

"All this… to save me?"

"You, and Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. But…"

"You called  _me_  to leave your… note."

"Exactly."

John bowed his head and, when he looked back up, the tension had left his shoulders. Sherlock's senses tingled with the flood of new observations that suddenly washed over him, John's face and eyes opening to him, holding nothing back.

"How, Sherlock? How did you think I would  _cope_? Three years ago,  _now_?"

"Just like I tried not to go mad, being away from you for three years. You are strong, John, stronger than anyone I know. I realized this would change us both, but I never doubted that you'd still be there, underneath the ruins. Just like you never gave up on me."

"And am I? Still there?"

Sherlock slowly raised his arm, his hand slipping from John's, and reached out, brushing his fingertips over the almost imperceptible creases that told him how long the shirt John was wearing had been lying in the wardrobe cupboard, then, carefully, cupped his cheek, hand entirely steady once more. He was home.

"I can see you."

"You mean you can read me."

"Same difference," Sherlock quipped, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards, and John smiled.

Earnestly, Sherlock said, "I didn't want to leave, John."

"I know, it's alright."

"No, it's not. You should know that saying, 'this hurts me as much as it hurts you,' even if it is the truth, never makes it alright."

"It does with you. Just… the 'caring lark' paid off, for once. That's good enough for me."

"I underestimated you again, Dr Watson."

"You just likened our… relationship to some lousy, abusive marriage from one of our cases, so I'd say, yes, you rather did."

Sherlock nodded and, out of things to say somehow, the two just kept staring at each other, both lost in their thoughts and observations.

"You were making tea," John remarked after a contemplative silence, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock's, and cleared his throat.

"I thought you might need a cuppa, after, you know, beating me up," Sherlock commented drily, and John raised his finger in warning.

"Don't make me follow through on that."

Sherlock smirked. "Should I put the kettle on and we sit down and… clearly, you've got more questions, and I've got a few stories to—"

"Actually, keep your coat on. Can we… can we go home?"

"You mean Baker Street."

"No, Sherlock, Southwark Cathedral—of course, Baker Street. Can we go? Or are you still playing dead and can't show your face 'round there?"

"We can go, but I'd have to stay in your room and away from any windows."

"Why?"

"Because, in fact, I'm already there. Come on!"

* * *

An hour later, they had finally arrived at 221B Baker Street, John's old bedroom, furthest corner from the windows.

"OK," John panted, leaning heavily against the wall, "tell me what I just changed cabs five times and climbed over Mrs Hudson's bins and the fire escape for?"

Sherlock, squatting at the doctor's feet, brushed a hand through his unruly mop of curls. "Security. Wouldn't want them to know that there are two Sherlock Holmeses they should be keeping an eye on right now; or that you're here with them."

"Two? Sherlock, English, please."

"Fine. There's a plasticine duplicate of me downstairs, right next to the window. That should draw them out, hopefully to kill me."

"Wait, what about Mrs Hudson and Lestrade? If they've been watching me—us—then they're coming after them, too."

"Don't worry, they're with Mycroft."

"Mycroft? He knows? Oh, this takes the biscuit: he sells you out to that psychopath, and you tell him you're alive before me? How long has he known? How can you even—"

"He had a choice to make, John, and he made it."

"Yeah, save Queen and Country, or his little brother from disgrace and death, that's… horrible. But he still—"

"It doesn't matter, John."

"It does to me!" John took a deep breath to calm himself. "So, you forgive him, just like that? Well, as long as you don't expect me to any time soon…" he muttered under his breath.

"I don't 'forgive' him, that's what you would do—or not. I simply evaluated the situation he was in and accepted his position."

"You would've done the same in his shoes, then?"

"I didn't say that."

"So how long has he known?"

"Longer than you, but… not as long."

"As long as… what? As who?" John nearly enjoyed watching Sherlock squirm a little, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be able to appreciate the experience until much, much later.

"Molly. She helped me make the switch with the bodies." At John's questioning look, Sherlock sighed and started to explain: "Remember how the girl reacted when she saw me? Someone abducted her, and that someone looked exactly like me. Moriarty's game always was a game of masks and misdirection; and this was the ultimate ruse: using my face. Little did he know that, with a bit of research into prosthetics and a little help, I could turn his own trap on himself. A corpse from Molly's collection, a John Doe who wouldn't be missed, dressed up and masked to match me, conveniently placed in the garbage truck that stood just in the right place for me to land in. A bit of fresh blood on a cosmetic head injury later, I pushed the body out and we drove off just as you were getting up again—I paid the cyclist to run you over, don't blame him. All of those who were first on the scene, actually: the Homeless Network is far more reliable than international hit men."

John sighed. "See, I wasn't going to ask how you did it until later, but—wait. Molly? Molly from the morgue, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood and sighed again. "You mustn't make my mistakes, John, I underestimated her—"

"Look, I know that she's smart and… exceptional at her job, otherwise you never would have bothered with her. I just cannot believe that you dragged her into this! She could have gotten hurt, and you lured her into danger because you knew she wouldn't say no to you."

"You mean the same way you couldn't say no to me the first time we met?"

"What are you—never mind."

"Molly was never in any danger, John, no more than she'd always be for helping me. Moriarty made my mistake, don't you see? He had people on you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, but he neglected Molly. He couldn't see that she's always counted."

"What made you change your mind about her?"

"She… saw something. And she had the grace not to mock me."

"So you asked her for help?"

"Obviously. She was the only one I could trust who could procure a corpse and who didn't have a squad of professional killers on their heels."

"But I did, and I visited her a few times!"

"Moriarty told them she wasn't a threat, they weren't paying any attention to her!"

"OK… OK. You know what?" John ground out, stepping up to Sherlock and grabbed his lapels, jerking him back and forth a little, barely holding in his anger. "A piece of advice there, Sherlock, free of charge: never do that again. 'Cause I swear to you, pull a stunt like that again, and I'll come after you and break your neck myself."

"Noted."

At Sherlock's demonstratively simple answer, John growled and, tightening his hold on the taller man's coat, fought the impulse of pushing Sherlock into the wall to make his point. But then, it occurred to him that he didn't need to—he knew Sherlock knew that he could easily overpower him; he'd had him in a headlock once, and he had the feeling Sherlock wouldn't put up a fight, this time.

He let his fists rest against Sherlock's chest and was just taking a step back to get a better look at him when something occurred to him.

"What did Molly see that she didn't mock you for? And why would you have expected her to, Molly doesn't mock."

"She saw that I was hiding my plans from you."

"But… you're always planning  _something_ , that's nothing worth hiding from me. I know that look on your face."

"That was a different look."

"Sherlock…"

"I was worried about what I was going to have to do, and I didn't like it. I was hiding it from you, but Molly noticed when you weren't looking."

"When was that?"

"When we were in the lab to analyse the kidnapper's footprint." That last part, Sherlock said staring at his shoes, looking for all the world like a little boy about to be scolded—the only thing missing was the shuffling feet.

John rolled his eyes, let go of Sherlock's coat that he hadn't realized he'd still been holding on to, and moved to sit on his bed, when he noticed that there were fresh sheets laid out.

"I'm that predictable, huh?"

Sherlock came up to sit beside him, carefully keeping to the shadows.

"Not entirely."

"You weren't sure I'd come with you," John assessed in that curious tone his voice took on whenever something about Sherlock still managed to surprise him—insecurity certainly did.

"No. I knew that you kept believing in me, but I also knew that your anger sometimes gets the better of you. You are a fixed point in a world that's spinning out of control, but three years aren't so easily forgiven if you're…"

"Ordinary," John supplied, and Sherlock shrugged.

"You know what I mean when I say that. My concerns were... irrational, but I had to consider them, because you are irrational at the best of times."

"Then why did you have Mrs H lay out new sheets—Sherlock, have you developed a sense of hope while you were away?" John couldn't help the sarcasm that crept into his voice.

"I met the Dalai Lama."

"Oh, you must've sucked the life right out of him…"

"I needed somewhere to sleep," Sherlock interrupted, "and your room seemed a good place to start. Mine can be seen too easily from across the street."

"How very Snow White of you."

"Which of the seven dwarves are you, then?"

"One more word, and Christmas is cancelled."

As if on cue, both started giggling. They kept laughing until they were holding their sides and John let himself fall backwards into the mattress, trying to calm his breathing. Outside the window, dark had fallen over London, and since they couldn't turn on the lights, John could hardly make out Sherlock's silhouette next to him. He reached out with his left hand, searchingly, and found Sherlock's arm. Squeezing gently, he brushed his thumb over the familiar fabric of the old, woollen coat before taking his hand away and sitting up. In the dim light of a streetlamp, he saw Sherlock turning to face him.

"I was travelling. Well, you would call it, 'on the run.' I couldn't show my face, of course, but I'm good enough at hiding. Did you read some of a rather eccentric Norwegian's expedition blog last year? Sigerson, his name was."

"Yeah, Mrs Hudson mentioned something—no. No, not again. That was you?"

Sherlock nodded, and John put his head in his hands.

"There was a clue in there, too."

"Oh, go on, it can't get any worse…"

"The hit counter. It was stuck on 1895 the entire time."

John's head shot up.

"1895?"

"1895."

"I hate you."

"Blame Mrs Hudson for not badgering you enough about giving it a look."

John huffed. "And when you weren't spying on polar bears, you were…?"

"Undermining what was left of Moriarty's criminal network and collecting evidence that might prove my innocence, obviously. Like plucking a bunch of baby spiders off a web—a lot easier as soon as mummy spider has bitten the dust, of course. His organization was headless, and without its head, a chicken can only trundle along so far. He didn't care what happened to them after we were dead and they didn't put up much of a fight."

"If they're all gone, why are you still hiding?"

"Because they're not  _all_  gone. There's one still out there, and I've saved the trap I'm laying out for him for last."

"Why is that?"

"One, he's smarter than the rest, and more persistent in doing his master's bidding even now—a bit like you," Sherlock smirked at John, who tilted his head, quirking a brow, but didn't comment. Sherlock, unfazed, continued, "And, two, because he's the one who would have had the questionable honour of shooting you outside St. Bart's."

"Oh. Thanks for that, then."

"If you'd like to have a word, I'm sure that can be arranged."

"Wouldn't want to rub it in, you talk enough for the two of us." They sat in silence for a moment, little smiles tugging at their lips, until Sherlock turned towards him.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

"Good."

Silence filled the room once more, and John clenched his jaw against the words that threatened to spill, anything just to try and fill the void that seemed so ridiculous. Three years, and their conversation was made out of silence. John had to fight the feeling that this meant that they had lost each other in translation.

"You were more talkative at my grave," Sherlock promptly shook him out of his sombre thoughts and John looked up, surprised that Sherlock seemed to have the same concerns, for once not entirely oblivious. At the same time, John felt the guilt well up inside him. For calling Sherlock a machine before leaving him at Bart's, for making him sound like the freak everyone who didn't understand saw in him, for sounding just like Donovan and Anderson. For being so easily manipulated, so easily disappointed in him. He'd tried to make amends that first time at Sherlock's grave, but it had never left him, that nagging feeling of having let down the one person who meant most to him, and who cared more for the people in his little world than anyone else he'd ever known. John had never told him in as many words; he'd never said…

Sometimes, 'I never said…' was the first thing on his mind when he woke up, from when he'd been about to say it in a dream, and those were the days he didn't even bother to get out of bed. He'd known he'd never say it then, and had locked the words away in that box. Now, the box was rattling, but John held a hand clamped on the lid.

This must be what Arthur Dent felt like, not being able to tell Trish that Planet Earth had been demolished—bleeding obvious, but he'd rather be fed to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.

"Well, you weren't." As soon as he'd said it, John snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, mentally berating himself—cute deflections weren't going to help. He drew another breath and tried again, saying the first thing that came to mind instead of pushing it away. "I've missed you."

Chancing a side-long glance at Sherlock, John was surprised to see a tension he hadn't perceived before leave the tall man's shoulders. The sleuth smiled at him—didn't smirk, but smiled, like he had on their first evening out, after John had shot the cabbie to save his life and called him an idiot. John's pulse fluttered against his will, and before he could stop to think, he found himself smiling in return, Sherlock's eyes never leaving his. Although he couldn't see properly in the fading light, John felt the intensity of his friend's gaze.

"Well, I'm back. And I'm never going away again."

"Don't say that. No-one can make promises like that," John reminded him. Something else occurred to him then and he voiced the thought before he could chicken out. "And you're not in the business of telling people what they want to hear."

"Do you want me to say it again?"

"What? Sherlock, no, that's—"

"I'm never going away again."

John opened his mouth to rebuke him, but Sherlock insisted, leaning closer towards him, still repeating the phrase. "I'm never going away again." Closer and closer, careful not to make John feel crowded by moving too quickly. "I'm never going away again." John now had his lips pressed together, refusing to answer, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's, which were staring back relentlessly. "I'm never leaving you again, John. That's what you want to hear, isn't it?"

John's jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth, but he knew Sherlock was right. Of course he was. Somewhere along the way, the guilt had also revealed something even more powerful, and more tragic: John hadn't asked for Sherlock to come back for Mrs Hudson, or Molly, or Lestrade—but for him. John wanted  _his_  Sherlock back, and with the rare selfishness came the realization. The desire. It had taken him ages to understand what Irene Adler had meant, standing in that abandoned building. Whatever their sexual orientations might be, they didn't stand a chance in the face of Sherlock Holmes. They didn't matter.

John had never been as close to anyone else; certainly not to the string of girlfriends he'd had since moving to Baker Street. While the sex had been good, he'd been as emotionally accessible to them as a plank of wood—who was he kidding, he'd practically already been in a monogamous relationship the entire time, if not physically. But that aspect of their relationship had held a few surprises for him as well.

If he'd told any of this to Ella, she'd have probably scribbled down something about 'deferred sexual gratification' and 'denial' into her book and called him a lovesick twonk—in more socially acceptable, professionally psychiatric ways, of course. It hadn't made him feel any better, lusting after his dead best friend, mentally slapping himself every time he had a flashback of some instance where he'd been attracted to Sherlock and not even noticed it—which happened a lot—but it allowed him to think about something other than merely, 'He's dead.'

'He's dead, and I'm in love with him,' made for much more variety.

He knew he wanted to be selfish, take what he needed. He couldn't have Sherlock, but he could have this, a promise that wouldn't have meant anything from anyone else, but that meant everything from this man—because Sherlock Holmes didn't make promises, not ever. But now here he was, inches away from John, his grey eyes bright and unwavering.

"It is, of course it is." The words tumbled from his lips almost of their own volition; and John felt himself relax into Sherlock's closeness, sighing.

"See," Sherlock muttered quietly.

"See what?"

"You can stop, John. You can stop fighting it. Now, don't look so shocked. You of all people should know that I…" Sherlock leaned in until their noses were nearly touching, "see…" now their breaths mingled, "everything."

Sherlock closed the gap between them and sealed his mouth over John's, who was practically frozen in place. What on earth was going on? The consulting detective sensed John's doubts and pulled away, but stayed close. John blinked at him, trying not to yield to temptation and lick his lips.

"What are you doing?" His voice was quiet and although he tried to keep it flat, Sherlock could hear the suppressed emotion.

"I'm not in the habit of stating the obvious," Sherlock echoed John's earlier statement.

"No, but… what are  _you_  doing?"

"Something both of us have been wanting me to do for quite a while now."

"Have we?"

"Don't you—don't you want me to kiss you? I am not reading your body language wrong, John, I haven't—for a minute, perhaps, not for 18 months and an afternoon."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock, it's still possible for a person to think with something else besides their genitalia.  _You_  of all people should know  _that_." Another echo, thrown back at him this time.

Sherlock's eyes were searching John's face as he spoke, brows knitted together in confusion. The detective remained quiet for a minute after John had finished, then he seemed to have an epiphany and he relaxed slightly. "This isn't about you—you want me to, but you don't believe  _I_  would want to…"

"Surprised?"

"A bit."

"How can you even say that?"

"I don't always explain my reasoning to you, John, and yet I am usually—"

"This isn't about reasoning, Sherlock, or at least it shouldn't be, 'cause what's to 'reason' about wanting to kiss me? Is this another experiment?"

"It's not an experiment!" Sherlock scoffed.

"Then why would you suddenly decide, after never showing any interest in that aspect of a relationship—any relationship, in fact, particularly with me—and being gone for three years, that you want to kiss me?"

"Because I now know that you've accepted that  _you_  want to kiss  _me_."

"Sherlock, that's not how—"

"And because I've been waiting for this for a very long time."

John drew breath to argue, but felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Suddenly, it clicked in John's head and everything started coming back. In the three years they'd been apart, John had understood a few things about himself, but despite all the memories, he'd also gotten a bit out of practice. He'd been nearly perfectly attuned to the Sherlock way of doing things, and now he realized he'd forgotten how that really worked. Three years ago, this wouldn't have surprised him—well, it would have, but he would have been quicker to put 18 months of undressing each other with their eyes, Sherlock's eagerness to have him move in, and their very first dinner at Angelo's into perspective. John had given himself away very early on, and Sherlock had waited for him to stop denying it, giving him chance after chance not to. Until now, until Sherlock knew after one good look at him that he was ready. As if a switch had been thrown, John started grinning, incapable of holding the feelings at bay any longer. Sherlock saw the change in him and a mischievous spark returned to his eyes.

"Now do you believe me?" he teased.

"Would you lie to me about something like this? No, wait, don't answer that," John teased back, instantly enjoying their banter very much indeed.

"How is it that someone hands you what you want most on a silver platter and you're worried the platter's getting too heavy for them?"

"It's called reassurance, Sherlock. I need it before we can even think about—this wouldn't be a one-night stand." John tilted his head a little, trying to get a better look at his friend's face. He felt the adrenaline from putting himself on the line like that, but continued staring Sherlock right in the eye.

"Then let me reassure you," Sherlock replied, and kissed John, more insistently this time. John yielded to temptation and let himself respond the way he really wanted to. Pressing back against Sherlock's mouth, John was exhilarated to the point of being frightened at how perfectly the expressive cupid's bow moulded into his own.

_This shouldn't feel so right, not as long as we haven't talked about this properly,_  John thought,  _this shouldn't feel so right, this… but oh, God, it does._ Still, he broke the kiss after a while, ignoring the trouble he had focusing his eyes on Sherlock for a second.

"So your reasoning… is that this isn't actually sudden, it's just that I've finally caught up with you."

"Yes."

"A deductive leap."

"If you will."

"Wow, this is romantic." Despite his words, John couldn't help the surge of warmth inside his chest, and the churning in the pit of his stomach. This was just like when Sherlock hadn't spoken for three days and then informed him that he thought that he should return the shirt he'd bought the other day, that the cuffs were badly cut and would only impede his wrist movement, especially when handling his gun. Sherlock Holmes, Mr Punchline and King of All Non-Sequiturs.

"Should I have booked a helicopter ride over London?" Sherlock's caustic tone drew a chuckle from John, and he shook his head.

"No, just maybe given me a bit of warning, you know. There are cue cards for these kinds of things. But then…"

"Then what?"

"I suppose coming back from the dead is a rather giant cue card in and of itself."

"You know my methods."

"I hate it when you say that."

"And I said, 'dangerous' and there you were."

In lieu of an answer, John leaned forward and claimed Sherlock's mouth without much preamble. As John's impatience slowly but steadily bubbled up and snuck its way into how his lips moved against Sherlock's, the consulting detective gladly succumbed to his urgency. Relinquishing control wasn't usually in Sherlock Holmes' repertoire, but as John gained confidence and teased Sherlock's lower lip with his tongue, the request was met with an open invitation. John's heartbeat began to race as he deepened the kiss, only then thinking to bring up his hands and yet again grip Sherlock's lapels to pull him in.

Neither knew how much time had passed before they had to come up for air, and John was the first to find his voice.

"How long do we have before all hell breaks loose?"  _If_  was never the question with Sherlock, just  _when_.

"We should have about an hour, maybe two, if traffic doesn't die down as quickly tonight. And, yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Let's not pretend I didn't know why you asked."

John tried to stay serious as he looked back at Sherlock's smug expression, but after a few more seconds, he just started giggling. Sherlock frowned and, almost petulantly, asked, "What?"

"Oh, it's just… you are so bad at flirting when you're being you instead of acting to trick people. Completely unromantic."

"Your point being?"

"My point: then why is this the most romanced I've ever felt?" With that, John took off Sherlock's scarf and let it fell to the floor beside the bed. Sliding one hand round to the back of Sherlock's neck, he kept the man in place as he got up and shuffled over until he could kneel his left leg next to Sherlock's right thigh on the bed, then moved the other over to straddle him.

Sherlock swallowed visibly as he stared at John looming over him, and gently put his hands on John's back. "Gosh, you're tall," he teased, and John lightly thumped his chest in retaliation.

"Shut up," the doctor grumbled and bent down to kiss him soundly. Sherlock arched his back to push up against John's mouth, toes curling at the breathy moan John gave as their tongues wrapped around each other.

Without breaking the kiss, John put his left hand to work on Sherlock's coat buttons, undoing them as far as he could before he had to raise his hips to reach the bottom row. That being done, he slid the woollen fabric down Sherlock's shoulders, who quickly dispensed with it. When his arms were free again, the detective raised his hands to John's jacket, which landed on the floor soon after. He unbuttoned John's shirt, tugging the tails free from the waistband of John's jeans, and then pulled away from their kiss to press his nose to John's collarbone and breathe deeply. Letting his senses buzz with all the new information on which soap John had used that morning—the same brand as before the fall—and how his pheromones were levelled right then, Sherlock focused on the scent he had missed most: John. That clean, elementary smell that never left a person's skin, and that Sherlock would never forget as long as he lived. He raised his head to find John smiling at him, both of his hands buried in Sherlock's dark curls.

"Weirdo," the ex-soldier mumbled fondly, and Sherlock decided not to reply, starting to plant kisses along John's jaw instead. Tilting his head back, John closed his eyes, concentrating on how soft Sherlock's lips were against his five o'clock shadow. Sherlock slid his hands across John's chest and stomach, then around his waist and up his back.

Resting them over John's shoulder blades, Sherlock splayed his fingers, digging their tips into soft skin as he brought John closer so their bodies were flush against each other, their groins pressed together. John groaned while Sherlock's breath hitched—his superior self-control was slipping, and he had a feeling he'd soon be beyond the point of caring.

John bowed his head to nip at Sherlock's lips.

"We really need to get these clothes off," he said, his voice low and husky with desire. Sherlock nodded and stood, bringing John with him, steadying the shorter man until he had his footing back. Without another word, both started with their shoes and socks; and while Sherlock's deft, long fingers unbuttoned his suit jacket and dress shirt at incredible speed, John let his fall off his shoulders and moved to unbuckle his belt. Sherlock threw the jacket and shirt over the back of an old chair, stepped up to John and batted his hands away.

"Let me," he whispered and unzipped the doctor's fly the rest of the way, suppressing a hiss as he felt John's erection pushing against its textile constraints. John wasted no time in undoing Sherlock's trousers, sneaking a hand in to cup him through his underpants; this time, Sherlock didn't bother hiding his very audible reaction. John stepped closer, his hand still trapped between them, looking up at Sherlock with the shadow of a smile on his lips. Sherlock smiled back.  _Reassurance_ , he thought and lowered his mouth to John's, while his thumbs hooked underneath the waistband of the neat, white boxer briefs John was wearing, tugging gently. John briefly squeezed Sherlock's hip with one, then removed his other hand from inside the detective's slacks, putting it on Sherlock's chest instead, committing the rise and fall of slightly ragged breaths, which ghosted across John's left cheek as Sherlock opened his lips to John, to memory.

Sherlock hmm-ed at the back of his throat and then pulled John's pants and trousers down in one go, crouching down as far as John could follow his brisk movement without breaking the kiss. When he straightened up again, John already had his hands raised, and he braced them both on Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him back until he had no choice but to lie down on the bed. His legs still dangling off their edge, the sleuth wiggled his toes in anticipation, while John stepped back to pull off the rest of his clothes. With their last bits of armour gone, they felt weirdly exposed for a second, before they realized that they didn't need the armour anymore.

Breaths coming in quick puffs, John stepped towards the bed, where Sherlock, suddenly becoming aware of the strange angle at which he was lying there, shifted backwards to accommodate his legs. Both noticing that what they'd been staring at had not been each other's noses, their eyes met and smug grins spread on their faces without asking permission. John decided just standing there definitely wasn't doing his leg any good (not that he'd actually felt any pain during the last few hours), so he joined Sherlock on the bed, half draping himself over the taller man. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's back and pushed closer, his thigh rubbing against John's groin. The army doctor stifled a moan and then quickly kissed Sherlock before dropping his mouth to his ear, whispering, "I suppose, even considering the size of your  _ego_ , that you haven't been over-confident enough to stash condoms and a bottle of lube in my nightstand drawer, have you?"

"Sadly," Sherlock replied, his voice hitching as John bit his lobe.

"Oh dear," John rumbled, "the great Sherlock Holmes didn't trust his amazing powers of seduction, what has the world come to?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John and, before the other's soldier instincts kicked in, hooked a leg behind John's knees and flipped them over on the mattress, his tall frame covering John's sturdier build. Propping himself up on his elbows, Sherlock smirked down at John, who had the grace to look sheepish.

"Well, I'm sure we'll make do," Sherlock murmured in a low voice, but with that ever-present impeccable articulation that sent shivers down John's spine, reminding him of the first time that voice had seduced him, lured him into the best thing that had ever happened to him: 'Want to see some more?'

Oh, God, yes.

'Oh, God, yes,' was also just about the only thing John was capable of thinking now, as Sherlock wrapped a steady hand around his erection and bent down to flick his tongue at John's pulse point—damn that man and his precision!

John arched his back, moaning, and reached a hand down between them to return the favour, brushing his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock bucked his hips and tightened his hold on John—their eyes met again, and in that moment all the bets were officially off.

Their lips locked in a bruising kiss, they started stroking each other almost blindly, flying on instinct, adjusting speed and pressure only according to the way the other moaned and rolled their hips to get closer, closer, closer. John's left hand wound its way into Sherlock's hair, he didn't rightly know whether he was pushing or pulling, just briefly wondered if Sherlock was actually purring. Their movements were becoming frantic, and Sherlock contemplated listing all 142 kinds of tobacco ash he'd ever analysed to draw it out when John pulled away and rasped, "For God's sake, don't hold back _now_."

Sherlock quirked a brow at him and John groaned—out of pleasure or exasperation, Sherlock couldn't quite tell. Knowing when to take a hint, the detective recaptured the doctor's lips and, somehow, their hands found the perfect rhythm until, swallowing each other's gasps and cries, they came, eventually breaking apart, desperate for oxygen.

Every muscle in his body shaking, Sherlock had to take his hand away and use both arms to prop himself up, mindful not to crush John underneath him while their hips were still rocking together, riding out the aftershocks. John released Sherlock from his grasp and felt around for a small packet of tissues he'd seen on the window sill behind the headboard earlier. Still panting, he cleaned up their chests and stomachs, tossing the tissue to the side carelessly, winding his arms around Sherlock's back, pulling him closer.

Sherlock realized his intention and lowered himself down slowly until he was lying right on top of John, who was holding him tight, their sweat-sheened skins flush against each other. He dropped his head to bury it in John's neck, trying to get his breathing back under control. John kept his eyes closed, his left hand making its way down Sherlock's spine to his buttocks, coming to rest there as if by itself. Sherlock turned his head to look at John, raising his left hand to push a strand of blond hair out of John's forehead, going on to massage his scalp when he heard John sigh contentedly. John cracked an eye open and cast a glance at Sherlock, and at the way he was draped over him like an oversized limpet, their limbs entangled.  
"You're really real, aren't you?" he asked, half afraid of the answer.

Sherlock pressed a lingering kiss to his temple. "Don't worry, Doctor Watson, you're mad as a hatter, but not clinically insane."

"Isn't that what any self-respecting hallucination would say?"

"Damn, you've caught me out!"

Fighting a smile, John pinched Sherlock's butt. "Focus!" he growled.

"John, it's generally futile to try and get a hallucination to admit that it's a part of a delusion that your frontal cortex has cooked up to—"

"Take a day off, Sherlock."

"I have, I've taken about two years off before I could start working again; I didn't care for it."

"I can imagine." Something occurred to him. "You're not back on the cigarettes again, are you? Or… anything else? Not another four weeks of cold turkey!"

"Why do you ask?"

"I didn't see any nicotine patches, and since I'm assuming you're not really relaxed these days…"

"Not bad," Sherlock smirked, "but no. You got me clean, I preferred to keep it that way."

"That's—" John was about to reply when he heard a noise coming from the stairs outside. He tensed and pushed against Sherlock's chest to get him to sit up, listening for anything else. When another step creaked, John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and shoved him to the far side of the bed, placing himself between the door and his partner. Then, he moved to get up and grab his army revolver from his jacket.

"John," Sherlock hissed, lunging for his arm to hold him back, trying not to imagine John, naked as he was, with his gun at the ready, waiting for whoever was on the other side of that door. He'd do it, too—Sherlock knew exactly why he'd fallen for this man.

"Let go, Sherlock!" John hissed back, but hesitated when he saw the look on the young Holmes' face. "What is it?"

"Nothing to worry about."

"What have you—"

A knock sounded on the door, and John's head swivelled around to stare for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

"Professional hit men don't usually knock, do they?" Sherlock didn't bother waiting for a reply as he leapt up, pulling John out of bed with him, grabbing for his clothes, signalling for John to do the same. "Get dressed, quickly."

In record time, they looked presentable again, Sherlock smoothing down the suit jacket with a familiar motion that John hadn't realized he'd missed seeing every day. With a nod, they confirmed that they were ready, and Sherlock stepped towards the door, unlocked it, and opened it to reveal…

"Dimmock!" John exclaimed. The Inspector, on the other hand, seemed not the least bit surprised to see him, much less Sherlock Holmes, as he entered.

"Has Mrs Hudson arrived safely?"

"I delivered her into the hands of Inspector Lestrade. He said your brother would be in Whitehall until later tonight, but they had Special Branch looking after them."

"Hmm, that's only marginally reassuring… well, Lestrade's been there on vacation for over a week, he's probably sounded the house out for escape routes three times already."

John, who had been looking to and fro between them in confusion now finally had something to tag on to.

"What—Greg's with Mycroft  _on vacation_?"

Dimmock and Sherlock turned towards him, both drawing up their eyebrows.

"Right. Go on," John motioned for them not to mind him.

"I've pulled as many officers as I could without drawing the Super's attention, but… everything depends on this working out the way it should."

"Naturally," Sherlock replied condescendingly, but John could hear the strain in his voice.

"Another question," he cut in, "why you, Dimmock? I mean, why not Lestrade, and why are you helping him? You weren't overly fond of him last time."

"If Inspector Lestrade got anonymous tips that led him to several criminals who turned out to have been part of a certain someone's network of operatives all across Europe, that would ring alarm bells. If I get some pointers from verified informants that have led me, quite by accident, to discover the remnants of a network of organized criminals who for some reason all blurt the same name in interrogation, then, well, I'm just a junior officer asking inconvenient questions. We've only worked the one case together; and it's Lestrade who's been made an outcast, not me."

"Why?" John asked again, taking a step closer—Sherlock had to suppress a smirk as he realized that John would be pulling rank right now if Dimmock were  _his_  junior officer, not the Yard's.

Dimmock squirmed a bit, but eventually answered: "There's a group of young coppers, they—we've started out at the Met while Mr Holmes had already been consulting for a while. He… helped us on our way. And after word got out that Lestrade had called to warn you about the arrest and Mr Holmes refused to run until  _you_  got yourself into trouble with the Superintendent, we just agreed that we weren't buying it, none of it. It's too easy. It stings, having someone without a badge poking around in your investigations, but if we're already sure that something of this scope was engineered, then we can't be sure in which direction, can we? We hate the media when they're working against  _us_ , why not stay objective?"

"Except there is nothing objective about faith," Sherlock interrupted, an air of impatience about him that John had rarely seen before. The afternoon had rushed by so fast that he had a little trouble grasping the fact that this op would make or break the great Sherlock Holmes' reputation—and future.

The young DI was going to reply when the radio on his belt crackled. "Inspector, we have movement across the street, right where you said there'd be. From what we can see, he means serious business. It's an odd one, though. Looks like a rifle, but it's cobbled together, with knobs in all the wrong places."

Dimmock held up a hand to keep them quiet and answered the call. "That's because it's custom made, and quieter than silent. Soon as we've got it, we can track the parts, but for that we need to make sure we'll get it—so please tell me everyone's in the right positions?"

"We're all set, he can't get away unless he's a magician."

"Don't jinx it, Sergeant. Right, keep yourself hidden until I give the order. Over."

"Roger that."

Sherlock had been bouncing on the balls of his feet for the duration of the call, and after the post-coital languor they'd just been shaken out of, John had to hide a smirk at seeing him bursting with energy, itching to solve a case that had been over three years in the making.

"And now?" Dimmock inquired, shrugging his shoulders. Apparently, Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell him much about the plan beyond this point.

"Now, we wait." Keeping to the shadows, he beckoned both of them closer to the far window, which lay higher than the level of the building opposite an assassin would have to position themselves on to aim at someone in the living room of their flat.

"I hate waiting," John muttered under his breath.

* * *

Two hours later, John was rubbing his knuckles, feeling generally good about himself and reclining in one of the visitors' chairs at Scotland Yard, while Sherlock was pacing holes into the carpet next to him, delivering a lengthy explanation to the big wigs of the Met. In the other chair, Mrs Hudson was still staring at the consulting detective, unable to believe her own eyes. She had been brought down together with Lestrade, who was outside with Dimmock, fending off questions from the team. John turned to watch them through the glass. They didn't look particularly happy, the lot of them, but seemed to be warming up to the idea of having been manipulated and used by an actual criminal mastermind rather than by someone who they'd grudgingly trusted at least professionally. John focused his attention on Lestrade, getting the first good look at him he'd taken in years, as it seemed. He racked his brains for anything Greg had ever said on his visits, about his personal life, about being with anyone after the divorce, but came up empty. Mycroft, of all people. He did remember one thing that the DI had said when he'd come to help them with the Baskerville case in Dartmoor—something in how he'd said it had caught John's attention, but in the canine madness that had ensued, it had slipped his mind. John felt a pang of regret that he'd made his feelings about the elder Holmes brother so abundantly clear when Lestrade had first visited him after the funeral. He'd added to what was already a horrible situation, and though he couldn't have known, he felt terrible for unwittingly making it worse.

Just then, a tall, dark figure strode in through the outer doors, twirling an umbrella and looking to all the world like he owned the place. Mycroft brushed past the bunch of young officers and made a beeline for Lestrade, the hard expression around his eyes softening a little as he stepped up to him. They talked quietly for a moment, and when Mycroft moved to walk up to the office, Lestrade motioned for him to go ahead without him. Mycroft was about to move away when Lestrade held him back with a hand on his arm, whispering something in his ear that made him purse his lips in distaste, but when the Inspector didn't let go of his arm and raised a brow at him, he seem to resign himself to his fate and nodded, earning a smile that John hadn't seen on Greg's face in a long time, either.

When Mycroft came into the office, Sherlock halted in his pacing for a moment, nodding at his brother in acknowledgement of his general existence, but quickly resumed his monologue that was only interrupted by brief questions from the Superintendent every once in a while. John avoided Mycroft's eyes as they swept the room, knowing there wasn't anything to do or say now anyway.

* * *

Another string of seemingly endless hours later, Sherlock and John were back at Baker Street, back in John's bed. John yawned and Sherlock nudged his ribs playfully, as if telling him off for being tired after the day they'd had, and the informal gathering that had somehow happened after they'd returned from the Yard. Mrs Hudson had been happily puttering about in their kitchen, in the main room Lestrade and Mycroft had been standing near the window, arguing in hushed tones, and Molly had been there, too, sitting on the settee, her face ashen, but slowly regaining colour. She had started apologizing as soon as she'd come in through the door, but John had quickly shushed her, hugging her tight to make up for the years of secrecy, of never knowing whether there would ever be an end to this nightmare. Sherlock had, to everyone's surprise, followed his lead, enveloping her in a bear hug that would have put an octopus to shame.

The hardest part had been approaching Mycroft and Lestrade—John knew he'd never completely forgive Sherlock's brother for the choice he'd made, but he also knew what it was like to love someone the rest of the world had ceased to trust.

Now, as everyone had gone and life as he knew it finally made sense again, John turned in Sherlock's embrace, squeezing his arm in between them so he could put a hand on Sherlock's chest, right over his heart.

"Never thought I'd say this, but… Moriarty was right. You definitely have one."

"So it would seem," Sherlock replied, mumbling into John's hair.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmh."

"Don't lose it."

"Don't worry. I think it's quite safe where it is."

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Title and lyrics from Death Cab for Cutie's Transatlanticism.
> 
> For Ch., 'cause all she's gotta do is ask.
> 
> Repost from ff.net.


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